


late night conversations

by Anonymous



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender Harry, M/M, Writer Louis, side Ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 23:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13201371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Harry strikes up a conversation with a customer an hour after midnight. It might just be the best decision he's ever made.In which Harry is stupid, Louis is sad, Liam is the best, Niall needs a break and money, and Zayn is surrounded by idiots who need to take more initiative in their lives.





	1. late night conversation over vodka and trojans

**Author's Note:**

> an old fic i deleted a long time ago. might as well repost now

Harry doesn't notice him when he first walks in. There's a group of rowdy college kids celebrating a friend's birthday that demand his attention for most of the night, but Harry's able to get rid of them at around one in the morning. Their drunken banter fades as they make their way home, and Harry is left with a mostly empty bar (he's the only one out for the midnight shift) and a pile of condoms one of the college kids forgot to take with them, originally brought as a present for the birthday boy.

He's sitting at the far corner of the bar counter, staring down with his head in his hands. Harry winces and tsks, ashamed at his bad customer service.  _Well, looks like going home early is out the window_ , he thinks as he walks up to the man with a friendly grin on his face.

"Hey," Harry greets warmly, leaning against the counter. "Sorry about that. I was only able to kick them out after they were completely plastered. Were you waiting long? I tell you what; first drink's on the house. What can I get you?"

After he's done talking, the man finally looks up, and Harry can't help but admire the way the dim bar lighting gave the man's face an almost ethereal glow, like he wasn't even human. Harry has a weakness for pretty boys, and this boy has already jumped straight to the top of the list of the prettiest boys he has ever seen. And then he  _smiles_.

"Thanks," he says, his grin small and timid. Despite its size, it's still able to make Harry shiver all the way down to his toes. "Can I just get some vodka? On the rocks, please."

Harry whistles at his order and gets to work on the pretty man's drink. "Rough day?"

"More like rough life," the man mutters, fiddling with one of the condoms on the counter. Harry chuckles at the sight.

"Tell me about it," Harry says, bringing him his drink. The man thanks him and takes a sip, grimacing a bit when the alcohol hits him. "Today I accidentally spilt some tequila on my boss today. Good thing I'm friends with the guy, or else he would've taken his Irish anger out on me and rip me apart."

The man laughs softly and starts swiveling the glass in the counter with his index finger. "Funny, I wouldn't have imagined you as the clumsy type."

"Oh, I'm  _very_  clumsy," Harry confirms as he adjusts his apron string around his waist. Not because he had to, but because he just wanted to do something with his hands to distract himself from the beautiful stranger across the counter. "I'd probably trip and fall on the queen herself if I ever met her."

"Charming." The man finishes his drink and asks for another. Harry happily complies.

"So, if you don't mind me asking," he starts as the man nurses his new drink between his slim fingers. Harry has always been rather talkative with his customers, but something about this man makes him want to babble on forever. Maybe it's the blue of his eyes, or the hunch of his shoulders. "What's a guy like you doing in a hole in the wall like this by yourself so early in the morning?"

The man laughs again, but this time it's sounds more bitter. Harry's brow furrows at the change of tone. "Just...I just had to get out of the house, I guess."

"Too loud?" Harry guesses. He takes the man's half-filled glass and refills it.

"No." He nods in thanks as Harry slides the full glass of vodka to him. "Too...quiet." He lowers his head, and that's when Harry notices how dark the bags under his eyes are, or how bloodshot his eyes were even before he started drinking.

"Oh." Harry isn't sure what to say next. He decides to turn his back to the man and pretend to clean some beer pitchers. Then he says, "I kind of get it, though. Alone time's nice, but sometimes you just need some background noise, y'know?" He huffs and places the polished pitcher back where it belongs. "Well, sorry to disappoint, but all you got for company's me."

"Not disappointing at all," the man protests, the corner of his mouth twitching up in amusement. Harry flushes and tries to smother his own grin. "Don't know if you know this, but you've been pretty good company so far, Mr. Bartender."

"Thanks." Now that he's noticed it, Harry can't unsee how hollow the man's gaze seems. He's smiling, and it's gorgeous, but something about his stare seems fake and empty. It concerns Harry, and after a period of companionable silence and another glass of vodka, he asks, "You wanna talk about it?"

"About what?"

"I don't know," Harry says as he takes the empty glass and refills it again. The man has started to loosen up a bit; his face is more flushed and his posture has relaxed considerably. From him getting more comfortable with Harry's company or the alcohol, Harry doesn't know. "Maybe let's start with why you look like you just got back from a funeral or something. Sorry if it seems like I'm prying, but are you alright?"

"Nothing to talk about," the man replies, his words slightly slurred at the edges, and Harry snorts.

"Bullshit." Harry stands in front of the man and raises an eyebrow. "Something's eating at you and, well. People say I'm a good listener, so you could tell me. We're probably not going to see each other again either, so." How Harry wishes that weren't true.

The man's eyes widen a bit at Harry's forwardness, but they eventually soften to give way for an almost fond look. "Okay." After staring at the awaiting glass for a moment, he pushes it away and sighs. "It's just - it's stupid."

"So is this pile of unused condoms." Harry takes one and flicks it at the other man, hitting him right on the nose. Not something he'd usually do to a complete stranger, but he's never felt so comfortable with someone he's just met in his life. "A lot of things are stupid, but that doesn't mean they aren't important. I mean, condoms are stupid, but they're also  _important_ , right?"

The man snorts and clutches his nose. "You - oh my God, that's  _so_  gross. Do you even know where they've been?"

Harry shrugs in return, taking the rejected glass and helping himself to the clear liquid. It's not like there are any other customers, and they're closing up in an hour anyways. "They haven't even been opened yet, you big baby. So, what's bugging you?"

After making it clear with his middle fingers how he thought of Harry's decision of throwing contraception at his face, the man's face darkens, and he looks away at the empty chairs and tables of the bar. "Have you. I'm mean, have you ever sat in a room, all alone, and just think?"

"Um." Harry pauses for a moment, unsure of what the answer the stranger wants to hear is. "Well, yeah. I think everyone has - does, I mean."

"Yeah, you're right." The man laughs again, that same self-deprecating laugh that makes Harry's stomach churn unpleasantly. "But. Recently I've been doing that a lot. Just thinking, you know? And one day, I was at this beach."

Harry nods, already enraptured with this man's story. The way he speaks, so careful and articulate with his words despite having just drank multiple glasses of vodka, sucks Harry right in.

"And at this beach, there were cliffs. Like, really tall cliffs, so tall you can barely fathom how tall they were." He makes looping gestures with his hands, trying to replicate the cliff's structure for Harry to imagine in his head. "Anyway, I was there looking at these cliffs. And then I thought, 'hey, if I were to just step off one of those, and let the currents take me where they'd take me, would anyone notice?'"

"What?" Harry says. He sounds horrified. This is  _not_  where he thought the conversation would lead to.

"And then I realized that yeah, no one  _would_  notice. Maybe the grandma that lives next door to would notice I didn't take my morning newspaper off my doormat, but she'd forget eventually. I don't really have close friends, too. And my family's either dead or want nothing to do with me." He shrugs, so nonchalant and casual, and it makes Harry's skin crawl. "So, yeah. That's why I'm here. That revelation kind of bummed me out, and I felt the need to get a drink. I'm new to the area, and I found this place while walking around, so I thought, "why not?'"

"O-oh," Harry says lamely. The man just smiles at Harry's awkwardness. "I, uh. Oh." Harry goes and grabs two beers from the mini fridge and sets them on the table after opening them. "Here."

Taking the proffered beverage, the man takes a swig and taps his unoccupied fingers on the counter. "It's okay, Mr. Bartender. I wouldn't know what to say to that, too. I'm also pretty drunk, so what I said probably didn't even make any sense."

"I just - that's not true," Harry protests, gripping his beer tightly. When the man gives him an unimpressed look, Harry shakes his head. "That's not true! Maybe you think that no one would notice you gone, but how would you know? Maybe everyone, your friends, your family, even that old lady, would notice and worry and  _care_. How would you know someone's reaction to your death if you're not that someone? Tell me, would you notice if your neighbor doesn't leave her house for a week?"

After pondering over the question, the man says, "Yes. Mrs. Hopkins always leaves her flat at 10:00 am to feed the pigeons at the park bench."

"See? And would you care if she were to just disappear?"

"...Yes. I've never had a proper conversation with her, but she's a kind woman."

"And she probably thinks you're a kind man." Harry runs a hand through his curly hair and stares at the stranger, shocked at how someone so beautiful could think like that. "You can never know for sure the impact you have on others, but just know that you're. You're not alone, alright? No one ever is."

Harry grabs a rag and starts polishing the bar counter, trying to distract the other man from his reddening cheeks. He should probably start cleaning and locking the place up soon. The man just stares at him with his lips thinned out and pursed.

"And, well. This might not seem much, coming from a weird bartender that works for minimum-wage, but.  _I'd_  care. I don't even know you, but I'd care." Harry smiles a soft, shy smile, and the man's eyes widen a minute fraction.

"Huh." And he beams at him, a grin larger than any emotion the man has shown tonight. It makes Harry kind of dizzy. And then, "Give me your phone."

"Huh? Oh!" Harry hands over his phone to the man, almost knocking over his untouched beer in his haste. The man quickly taps something and hands it back, still smiling.

"I've just put in my phone number. So we can stay in touch." The man stumbles out from his bar stool still smiling, still looking at Harry like he's something special. He's clumsy and uncoordinated from all the alcohol he'd consumed, but he's able to stay on his feet. "I have to board a flight in three hours to Spain, but I'll be back in a couple of days. When I get back, we can talk again, yeah? Call me. I'm stupid and forgot my phone at my flat, so I'm counting on you to call me."

"Uh, sure," Harry stutters, holding his phone like a lifeline. He's not exactly sure what's happening, but with the way the man is looking at him, he thinks it's a good thing. "I'll, uh, call you."

"Great." The man chugs his beer until there's nothing left and slams it on the counter. He gets his wallet out and throws some money down, too. "What should I call you? Other than Mr. Bartender, of course."

Harry blinks, just realizing that they didn't even know each other's names. "Harry."

"Harry," the man repeats, saying Harry's name like a prayer. "Harry. Okay Harry, I'll see you later then."

After a moment's hesitation, the man touches Harry's cheek with his fingertips, light and tender. Despite his hands being cold and wet from the beer bottle's condensation and only grazing him for mere seconds, the touch leaves Harry's face and soul on fire.

"Just making sure you're real," the man clarifies, before stepping out of the bar's front entrance. "Don't forget!"

"Okay," Harry says to an empty bar and a pile of condoms. He stands there for a moment, contemplating if the whole ordeal was a hallucination or not. Then he looks down at his phone. He goes to his contact list and looks for a new number he doesn't recognize. And he finds it.

 _Louis_.

"Louis," he murmurs to himself. He drags a stool out and sits on it, hovering over his phone like it was the only light in a dark room. "Louis."

Harry has to clean and lock up the bar in less than an hour, but images of blue eyes and soft smiles and  _Louislouislouis_  are all that's in his mind.


	2. late night conversation over The List and unwise decisions

It's been two months since the night Harry's phone started showing  _Louis_  in its contact list, and he's sitting on a toilet in a bathroom stall of a club he doesn't know the name of with his knees tucked under his chin and a sharpie dangling in between his fingers. He's staring at the stall's door with a contemplating look and, after a moment, lifts his sharpie and begins to scrawl over old drunken graffiti with his own.

 _I made the worst mistake in my life_ , he writes,  _I didn't fucking call him back_.

It's dank and smells of urine and sex, but Harry doesn't make to move. He took the day shift at the bar today solely to go to this club and party, maybe even meet a cute girl and take her home, but all he's doing is hogging a much-needed bathroom stall with a sharpie in his hand and his heart in his throat. He's probably more drunk than he thought.

When someone starts banging on the door begging him to vacate the stall because  _"c'mon man, I know you're alone in there,"_  Harry realizes he's been staring at his sloppy vandalism for the past five minutes. He pockets the sharpie as he stands up and flushes the toilet despite not using it. He gives the angry stranger a mumbled apology and stumbles his way out the bathroom.

The flashing lights of the club hits Harry first. Then it's the reverberating bass of the deafening music, the heat radiating from the people dancing in close proximity, and the cloud of smoke shrouding the dim ceiling. The girl he had been chatting up before he excused himself to the bathroom has already found a new man to swindle alcohol from and is dancing with him, expensive drinks swishing in her hands, spilling down to stain her tacky designer boots.

None of this appeals to him anymore. He's no longer in the mood. Harry looks for the exit and leaves.

\-----

"Hey," Liam says as Harry opens the door to their apartment an hour later, barely able to get the key into the lock with his shaking fingers. Usually it only takes him thirty minutes to walk home, but Harry's drunken state makes it hard to see clearly, and he may have gotten lost on the way. The warm light emitting from their apartment helps soothe his pounding head. "You got something to write with? I can't find any of our pens. Or any writing utensil, for that matter."

The sharpie feels like dead weight in his jacket pocket. Harry hands it to Liam who says, "Who the fuck brings a sharpie to a club, this isn't the dark ages."

"Someone who gets off vandalizing bathroom stalls," Harry answers, shrugging his jacket off and tossing onto their couch. "And besides, phones are overrated. And expensive." Liam emits a small "huh" and goes to the kitchen to do whatever with Harry's sharpie.

"You came back earlier than I thought you would," Liam says from the kitchen. Harry follows him there and, when he glances at the clock on the microwave, finds that it's a half hour past midnight. "And I see you didn't bring anyone home this time?"

"Wasn't in the mood," was Harry's reply, and he laughs when Liam says, "Thank god, I can actually get some sleep tonight." He begins to pour himself a bowl of cereal and watches Liam tape a blank piece of paper to the fridge. "What are you doing?"

"Something only a man who found out their girlfriend's been cheating on him for the past three months would do." With Harry's sharpie Liam writes on the top of the paper " **SHIT WE NEED TO GET DONE** " in bold letters. Harry spoons some cereal in his mouth as he watches with curiosity; he's used to Liam's weird antics at night, and he's found that playing along with it is the best way to be dealt the least amount of collateral damage.

And, well, this is the most normal Liam has acted since he found his girlfriend of three years in his bed with their upstairs neighbor last month. Harry's not going to jinx anything.

"Okay, so. Firstly, I don't want to sound like one of those pretentious brats who were born into privilege and look down on poverty-stricken tax-evading minimum-wage earning men like yourself," Liam starts. If it were anyone other than Liam, Harry wouldn't have nodded understandably, but Liam is  _also_  a poverty-stricken tax-evading minimum-wage earning man, and couldn't pass off as a "pretentious brat" even if he tried.

"But secondly, we are also single men in our mid-twenties who have been living in the same shitty apartment for the past three years. And I think that calls for a 'Shit We Need to Get Done' list. Or SWNtGD for short." He taps the paper with the butt of Harry's sharpie. "This.  _This_  will help us get shit done."

"How eloquent," Harry says through his mouthful of cereal. He doesn't know why, but he always craves milk and cereal whenever he's drunk and without a sexual partner in the middle of the night. "And isn't this just a To-Do list? More simplistic, that is."

Liam shakes his head with a disappointed look shot at Harry's direction. "Too weak. But since I know of your phobias for long and strange acronyms, The List will suffice as a shortened term."

Harry smiles at this, and absent-mindlessly thinks about how easy it could be to fall in love with Liam. They've been best friends for years, and nothing would really change in their relationship besides sharing the same bed. But Harry has seen Liam in nothing but his Batman boxers eating his way through enough Chinese takeout to feed a small family too much to entertain that thought any further.

(And who's Harry kidding, he's already too hung up on a stranger to pursue anyone else.

[Pathetic.])

"So," Liam says, clasping his hands in excitement, "instead of going to bed at a reasonable time like normal productive adults, we're going to fill up The List with shit we need to get done." Under the title he writes "LIAM" and "HARRY" in smaller font and swipes a clumsily drawn line in between the names. "Things making up The List could include anything from stocking up our empty fridge with sustenance, to life-changing decisions like, I don't know. Finding the cure to cancer. So, what's first?"

Without thinking, Harry immediately suggests, "Finding a romantic partner for Liam he won't find in his bed with another man. Gender unspecified, but must have charming personality and at least 8.5 fingers." Right away he regrets what he said. Is it too early to make jokes about this topic? Harry has never been able to filter his mouth when it comes to Liam.

Fortunately, Harry's unease is for naught. "Wise words, Harold," Liam praises, seemingly unfazed by Harry's low blow towards Liam's relationship history. He dots a bullet and writes  _new gf (bf?): faithful, charming, >8 fingers _on his side of The List. "And the eight finger thing? That was only one time, you prick. Plus, we weren't even that serious."

Harry raises his hands in silent surrender and makes his way to the sink beside Liam to rinse his empty bowl. He  _definitely_  didn't want to pull on that thread. "So, how about me?"

Liam taps the bottom of his chin with his pointer finger in thought. "Hm. Oh, I know! How about you actually cutting your hair?"

Harry threads his fingers through his hair, which reaches his jawline, and scoffs. "As if. It's sexy, and not everyone looks good bald. Including you, to be honest."

Liam rubs at his head, prickly with his newly shaved hair ("I just need a fresh start," was Liam's explanation when Harry came home that night to find Liam sitting in front of their bathroom mirror with a razor raised to his hair), and says, "Don't project your inner securities on me. And, because of that..." He goes ahead and writes  _get a fucking haircut_ on The List under Harry's name. "There. Now you  _have_  to."

"Of course, because apparently, The List is law."

In the wake of more bickering and playful banter, the two end up filling The List with more Shit Needed to Be Done, Liam writing everything down, such as  _quit my horrible job_  for Liam, and  _stop wasting money we don't have on alcohol & 1-night stands every night_ for Harry.

"Okay, one more for me," Harry says, holding his third glass of water. It's nearing one in the morning, and Harry's drunkenness has decreased into a controllable level from all of the water Liam's been forcing him to drink. Liam has five bullets for himself, while Harry has four. "How about 'get a better roommate' under Harry?"

"Um, impossible," Liam tells him as he pours himself a glass of orange juice. "I'm already way out of your league in terms of roommates; I'm just a really nice guy and pity your lonely existence." He then gets a thoughtful look in his eye, which has Harry concerned. "And...I think I have a better one." Liam goes on to write something under Harry's name (without consulting Harry, Harry notices, which was a first) and purposefully shields The List from Harry's view with his torso. Harry taps his bare foot in faux impatience.

When Liam steps back, Harry reads what he wrote, and the smile on his face fades into a thin line.

_get harry to stop being miserable & fucking call that guy already_

"It'd be killing two birds with one stone," Liam explains, capping the sharpie and placing it into the kitchen drawer for silverware. "First, you'd be happy and in a relationship because -- don't give me that look Harry, I remember how starry-eyed you looked when you told me about the guy. You probably only interacted with each other for like, what? A half hour? Probably even less. Imagine how happy you'd be if you actually had a longer conversation, or better yet, dated."

"I knew I shouldn't have told you about him," Harry mutters darkly, crossing his arms together in an attempt to distance himself from this discussion. The day after Louis walked into Harry's bar, Harry tried to casually mention the night to Liam during lunch (dry breadsticks Liam had managed to salvage from his job at the local pizza place), but was forced to give every single detail about what happened that night to an overenthusiastic Liam.

("It's probably nothing," Harry said, biting off a piece of his breadstick. "He was drunk when he gave me his number. He probably doesn't even remember he did. And it's likely he's not even into men."

"Bullshit," Liam stated matter-of-factly, ignoring Harry's hypocritical yell of "language!" thrown at him, "I've never seen you this excited over another human being in my life. How could your happiness ever be 'nothing'? If one chat with this guy makes you light up this much, I will personally kidnap him and keep him for you forever, his sexuality be damned.")

"Second," Liam continues as if Harry hadn't interrupted, "the amount of money you waste on club hopping all night long, bringing people home, and feeding said people with  _our_  food  _we_  paid for would decrease to a healthy amount, and we would be less poor than we are now. So. Do us all a favor and call the guy."

Harry shook his head and backed away, hitting the kitchen counter with his back. "It's not that  _simple_ , Liam."

"Then tell me  _why_  it isn't." Liam glances at The List and back to Harry. "I've literally just wrote it in a single sentence; all you have to do is pick up your phone and dial his number. You've been acting all depressed for the past couple of months, and don't even try to say that this isn't the reason. Why didn't you just call him the day after? I asked you to, but you said that it 'didn't seem the right time yet.' When is the right time?"

Harry opens his mouth to argue, but closes it when he realizes that he doesn't have an answer to that question. Why hadn't he called Louis already? What was holding him back?

"I don't know," Harry admits eventually. "But it's too late, anyways. I waited too long."

Liam sighs, making to grab Harry's arm. "Harry --"

"I don't want to talk about it, Liam," Harry snaps, making Liam jump slightly at how harsh his voice is. When he sees this, Harry's face softens. "I had a chance to make a new friend, maybe even something more, and I blew it. That's all. So can we just drop it?"

Liam looks like he's about to argue, but he stops himself with a slump of his shoulders. "Fine. But I'm keeping it on The List. You can't erase anything on The List."

"Okay," Harry says, not looking forward to having to see a blatant reminder of his failure every time he walks past the fridge. That, and the number on his phone he's too cowardly to call or delete. "Can I sleep now? Mom?"

With a "of course, dearie" and a sloppy kiss on the cheek from Liam, Harry is sent off to his room and gets ready to go to bed. He has the night shift at the bar tomorrow, so he doesn't need to wake up early. He's glad for that; he feels like he could sleep for days and still feel like his bones are weighing him down to the floor.

Now that he thinks about it, Harry has a lot of free time, and his habit of spending his nights in clubs  _is_  eating at his savings. Maybe he should go hunting for another job.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks to himself as he makes himself comfortable in his bed.  _Tomorrow will be better_.

Sleep ultimately begins to flood his brain, and Harry falls asleep thinking that tonight could have been better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	3. late night conversations over failing businesses and sad authors

Harry's wiping the bar counter with an old dishrag when Niall appears. He rarely does this; he usually locks himself in his office, managing and financing and ensuring this bar's existence in the market. Kind of depressing for an extrovert like him, but what can you do. Niall's not a complainer, though, and when Harry had asked Niall why he takes such great measures for this hole-in-the-wall bar he'd inherited from his estranged grandfather, Niall'd just laughed and said something along the lines of "because I fucking love this place, you dick," and Harry stopped asking after that.

"Harry," Niall greets, his ever-present smile on his face. Harry glances up to give him a quick grin in return before looking down again at the wooden counter, today's water rings being particularly hard to rub off tonight. It's a little after ten, and the bar is unnaturally empty, even of regulars like the depressed high school teacher who has a weird obsession with one of his students, and the construction worker that dreams of being a world-famous opera singer. It's quite unnerving, for Harry at least, and he thinks that this may be why Niall is out and about instead of glued to his office chair. "How've you been? Haven't had a proper talk with you in a while."

"Good, good," Harry says as he finally throws the rag down in defeat, the water rings just as prominent as they were five minutes ago. Maybe he should get some Lysol from the back. "Just, um," he gestures vaguely at the counter, "doing my job, I guess."

"I can see that." Niall pauses and lifts his elbow onto the counter. Then he says, "Hey, so, it's pretty empty tonight."

"Yeah," Harry affirms, "I guess people had better things to do than drink their sorrows away."

Niall nods his head in agreement and flickers his eyes across the expanse of his bar. There's literally no one around, and Harry feels a surge of pity for his friend. He knows that business has been slow; just enough for them to break even, but not enough to earn a profit. Sure, that means that Harry sometimes gets paid even less than his usual salary, but that also means the prospect of closing down this place is an inevitable threat always looming over their shoulder. And Niall genuinely loves his bar, and Harry genuinely loves working for him, so their lack of funds makes both of their stomachs churn.

"I just came here to say that we can close up early," Niall says. "I've already told Anisa. She just left. She's cleaned the rest of the place up, so you don't need to worry about that."

"Really?" Harry props his elbows in the counter and blinks in surprise. They never close early; Niall says that it's "sort of like giving up, but not really. But it kind of is." Whatever that means. "I mean, I can stay for the rest of my shift and you can just head out."

"Thanks, but it's fine." Niall laughs to try to brighten the mood, but Harry can see the lines of worry on his face that shouldn't be there. It makes Harry want to smooth them out with his thumb, because Niall's just a couple years older than him and is way too young to handle all this shit life is currently throwing at him. "This is probably a good thing. Like, I guess we're cutting down on electricity bills by closing early? Haha."

"Um. Okay." Harry reaches behind him to untie his apron. "Well, I've already straightened up everything, so I'll just be going."

"Cool." Niall nods and says his goodbyes before turning back to go to his office. Just when he's about to disappear back into his office, Harry remembers his thought from last week and calls out to him, which makes him turns back with a questioning look on his face. "Yeah?"

"I've been thinking." Harry bites his lip. "About looking for another job? I mean, I'm not quitting or anything, I've just noticed that I usually don't have anything to do during the day, and Liam and I could use the extra cash, so." Niall doesn't say anything, so Harry walks out of the bar so he could put a hand on Niall's elbow as a form of comfort for his friend. "I swear, I'm not quitting. This just means I can't always take the day shift whenever I want to go clubbing until I pass out."

They're silent for another moment, with Niall looking at him with a blank expression. It's broken, however, with Niall's trademark laughter. It lifts a weight off Harry's chest he didn't know was there. "Yeah! No, it's totally fine. I was just worried for a second; I thought you were bailing on me! God, imagine how hard it would be for me to find someone that's okay with getting paid a shit salary like you."

"Only because I love you," Harry confesses with a smile tugging at his lips. He's then jerked into a tight hug, his head fitting nicely into the slope of Niall's neck.

"Go ahead and get a job, you freeloader," Niall jokes as he rubs Harry's forearm warmly. He lets go of him and says, "Hey, there's a bookstore a couple of blocks down from here that's hiring. They need a cashier, and I'm sure you can charm them to hire you. It worked on me, and I knew before I hired you that you couldn't bartend for shit."

"It's the dimples," Harry admits, smiling so they're visible at the crease of his lips. "And I learned, didn't I? Stop selling me so short."

With a roll of his eyes, Niall pushes Harry to the direction of the exit. "Get out of here, Styles."

And he does so, his hands in his pockets and his eyes staring up at the night sky.

\-----

"Harry," Liam calls out as he closes the front door behind him. Harry's lounging on their ratty, stained couch, making do with his promise and watching his way through the Middle Earth series. He's currently about halfway done with the second Hobbit movie, his eyes dry and red from staring at the TV screen for so long. "Can you cross out the 'quit my horrible job' part off The List for me? I'm kind of too shocked at my actions to do so myself."

"No. Fucking. Way." Harry jumps out from their couch and barrels into the kitchen, haphazardly stumbling his way across their small living room. The silverware drawer rattles as he yanks it open,and he searches frantically until he finds the sharpie that somehow became a permanent fixture with their forks and knives. Without question, Harry uncaps the sharpie and crosses out the said objective off The List. "I can't believe it. You actually quit?"

"Hell yeah," Liam affirms, smirking smugly at Harry's dumbstruck face. "The final straw? The manager asked me to ask someone who was loitering outside the place to leave. Which seemed reasonable at first, until I find out that said loiterer was the resident drug dealer who's known to have ripped the ear off of a McDonald's employee a month before who did the same thing I was about to do. I wasn't taking that chance. I've already shaved off all my hair, I wouldn't have anything to hide my lack of ear with."

Harry bumps their shoulders together and says "I'm so proud of you" with a wide grin. "Also, more good news: you know the job I applied for last Tuesday? They contacted me. I got the job, and I start this Friday."

"Fuck yeah!" Liam grins, and Harry's buzzing, his insides electrified with the fact that he's done something, and now he's going to make some more money, and maybe him and Liam can finally move out of this horrible apartment and actually do things with their lives that they've always wanted to do but never done, the possibilities are endless. They could go to France and be proper tourists, taking blurry pictures with the Seine in the background, or they could go ziplining in Thailand, and maybe they could eat an actual meal for once, and--

"I'm going to be a cashier in a fucking bookstore," Harry says, wrapping an around Liam's shoulders and pulling him closer, "and I am  _so happy_. What is wrong with me?"

But there's nothing wrong with him, and Harry knows that; this is just the first time in a long while he's  _done something_  for himself that can have more long-lasting effects than just a hangover the next morning or a naked stranger standing in his kitchen. It leaves Harry thrumming with energy, and all he wants to do is run around the block screaming something along the lines of "Look at me, I'm not worthless because I've done something I can say I'm proud of and can look forward to tomorrow."

The last time he's felt this way is when Louis--

_Let's not think about that._

"Look at us, actually making progress with ourselves," Liam says as he pulls out of Harry's one-armed embrace and plops onto their couch. It makes a cracking noise that Harry would probably be worried about if he weren't metaphorically soaring into space. "Me, quitting my shitty job. And you, getting a new one. See, I told you The List works."

Harry laughs and says "shut up" with a fond look on his face as he sits next to his friend, landing on something hard and rectangular. "What's this?" he asks, pulling it from under himself. It's a book, and Harry is now surprised, because the amount of books found in this apartment is usually at a constant rate of zero. They're too expensive, and Liam and Harry have much more important things to do than to sit down and read.  _In Loss I Discovered_  it says in the center in gold, simple script, and at the bottom,  _Austin_.

"Oh, that. I'm making progress with my other goal in The List," is Liam's answer, and he plucks the book from Harry's fingers and turns to a page being bookmarked with what seems to be a greasy McDonald's receipt. "Found this book a couple of days ago at the same bookstore you're going to be working at. It looks pretty pretentious, but I looked it up and most websites said it's a good read."

"What's it about?"

"It's actually a collection of poems and, like, little pieces of writing? It doesn't have any set theme or anything, but the guy's prose is pretty interesting." Liam runs a finger down a page. The book is shiny and new, and its unbroken spine and pristine white pages seem out of place in their apartment full of Goodwill purchases. "It just came out a couple of weeks ago, and apparently its already won an award and broke some records or something. I don't know. But something about the way this guy writes about love is so...relatable? Like, it's like what a Sam Smith song would be, but in book form."

"I never pictured you as a poetry guy," Harry snorts. "Or a person who listens to Sam Smith."

Offended, Liam blinks and retorts, "What's that supposed to mean? Also, I told you, it's not just poetry. There's also small blurbs that are really neat. Look, this one's one of my favorites." Liam flips through the pages until stopping somewhere near the end. "Here."

Harry takes it from Liam's hand and stares down at the printed words. It isn't a poem, but a couple of small paragraphs, all in one page, with a sentence in parentheses at the bottom in even smaller print, as if just a footnote tacked on last minute. On the top is " **drowningwatchingblinding** " in bolded letters.

_i feel like im in a glass case filled with water in the middle of a room full of people and theyre watching me struggle to breathe and whenever i try to scream at them to help water surges into my mouth like a wave and i cant make a sound so im just drowningdrowningdrowning and they're just watchingwatchingwatching_

_and then i see you at the back of the room and youre this bright light thats almost too much to look at it makes my eyes and my insides sting and then you smile at me_

_and somehow the water in my mouth doesnt seem like a burden anymore_

_but now the case im in feels so much more smaller because when i try to reach out to you my hands bump against the glass_

_and when you turn to leave the rest of the people smile at me too but instead of a blinding light they are a gaping hole and thats when i realize that this is what being alone feels like_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_(_ _when you were in the room i forgot these people were even here make me forget they are even here)_

"Like, the whole things feels like an offhand piece of writing the author had made on a napkin while passing the time," Liam says, "like he was just absent-mindedly doing it while waiting for his coffee at a Starbucks. And, I don't know, the weird spacing and the lack of capitalization and punctuation kind of gives it a rush, urgent feel. As if this guy is calling for help. And what he's writing about..." He bites his lip, thinking about what to say. "It's kind of sad, isn't it? You can really feel how alone he feels, and how the person he thinks of as a 'blinding light' was such a breathe of fresh air to him when compared to all of these people watching him drown in the water. I just. I feel bad for him."

"You should be one of those literary analysts," Harry jokes weakly, putting the book down on their coffee table. "That was pretty impressive."

"Nah, too stupid." And Liam beams at Harry and reaches out to ruffle his long hair. "But you're not. And you know what? You're gonna go to your new job, be the best cashier that bookstore has ever seen, and I'm gonna get a new job too and be amazing at it. And we're gonna save up some money and get out of this shithole, just you and me, and have some fun with our lives. We're gonna do it, Harry."

Harry almost tears up at the impromptu speech, and he silently thanks every religious deity he knows of for the existence of Liam Payne.

"Thanks, man," he says out loud, leaning against Liam's comforting and familiar warmth.

Offhandedly, Harry wonders if the author of the book is just as sad as Louis looked like when he walked into Niall's bar. It almost seems like a lifetime ago. He can barely remember what it felt like to look into his eyes.


	4. late night conversation over events in the past and hopes for the future

"Honey, I'm home," Harry calls out as he opens the door to his apartment. It's two in the morning and he's just got back from from a surprisingly productive shift at the bar. Business was busy for the first time in a long while, and Niall's beaming face and raucous laughter had boosted Harry's spirits. It was nice to see the guy genuinely happy for once.

Ever since he started working two jobs Harry hasn't been home much; his day usually consists of him waking up and heading over to the bookstore at around twelve, taking over the register for his shift, and coming home to get ready for his bartending stint at Niall's. The added workload has shortened his free time to between five and eight in the afternoon, the three hours in between his shifts Harry internally dubbed "the eye of the capitalistic storm." In this brief period Harry eats, maybe hangs out with Liam if he's home, takes a nap, and changes into his bartender uniform for his next job. His only day off is Sunday, and he celebrates this day the way God had intended us to in the form of sleeping till the next morning.

Most would loathe to be in his position: a young college graduate living nearly by the dollar, working two minimum-wage jobs six days a week to keep himself and his still unemployed best friend (who still hasn't found a job despite searching for nearly a month) afloat, but to Harry, this is the most content he's been with himself in a while. Maybe it's the fact that he doesn't necessarily need to buy the generic brands at the supermarket anymore, or maybe it's because this is the first time in forever that he's done something for himself, that he no longer feels like a poor bartender working at a failing bar, but a poor bartender who also works as a cashier for a moderately successful bookstore.

That doesn't sound like something to be thankful for, but. The feeling's hard to explain. He's just  _happy_.

"Liam, you would _not_  believe this guy that was at the bar tonight," Harry says as he shuts the door behind him. "Apparently he's a Satanist? And he was telling me about how he'd been trying to mess with the demon of nightmares or whatever, and ever since then he'd go to sleep and have a different dream about dying in horrible ways every night. How cool is that? I'm not saying we should try summoning a demon, but we should try summoning a demon."

The silence he's met with is unfamiliar to Harry, because Liam  _always_  answers, no matter how absurd Harry's line of thought is. Is he actually asleep?  _Impossible_ , he thinks as he walks the few steps it takes to the living room, _Liam never sleeps_.

He was right on that aspect, because when he turns the corner and takes in the scene he walked into, Harry is surprised to see Liam sitting in the couch with a stranger beside him. Liam's staring at his lap as the guy stares at Liam like he's just saved his life or something. And maybe Liam did; Harry doesn't know, he hasn't been seeing him as much as he usually does, with the new job and all.

"Uh. Oh," Harry says lamely, unwinding the scarf around his neck. "Hello. Are you one of Liam's friends?"

The man finally stops staring at Liam like he's a long lost friend and turns to Harry to give him a closed-lipped grin. He's handsome, Harry notices, with long lashes and nice, tan skin. Harry's kind of been ignoring objective beauty in people's features for the past few months (and this has nothing to do with the Incident that involves a very handsome sad man, shut up, Harry's just been busy), but this guy makes him begrudgingly retract his statement about how bald people aren't attractive.

"You're Harry? Harry Styles?" the guy asks, as if Harry hadn't asked a question. Which would irritate him in normal circumstances, but this man is giving him a friendly look and, well. Again, Harry has a weakness for pretty boys.

"Yeah."

"Good." The man seems pleased and stands up to give Harry his hand to shake. Not without giving another quick glance in Liam's direction, he notices. "I'm Zayn. I'm the owner of the bookstore you work at."

Oh. Shit.

"Haha," Harry laughs, because he's an idiot who laughs in awkward situations. He shakes Zayn's hand and says, "Well, hello, uh, boss? Mr. Zayn?"

"Zayn is fine," he says, his smile growing enough so that Harry can see his teeth. His perfectly straight, white teeth.

 _What the fuck,_  he thinks.

When Harry imagines the owner of bookstores, he thinks of a middle-aged white man with a receding hairline who enjoys reading Ayn Rand in his spare time for inspiration. Not  _this_.

"Okay." Harry tries to casually lean to his right, nearly knocking over a vase he'd made a couple of years ago while high one some cheap weed a customer left on the bar counter. Shit. Why is his boss here? Did he do something wrong? Harry swears he didn't do anything illegal during work hours, but then again, he's never been good at discerning what was legal or not. Years of unknowingly buying food at a supposedly kosher grocery store ran by the local mafia can attest to this. "Are you, uh, firing me?" He's never been good at being subtle.

Zayn's eyes widen in surprise, and he says, "What? No! I just wanted to talk to you." His arm is still outstretched, and because Harry isn't a barbarian, he takes the proffered hand and gives it a firm shake. "Sorry for barging in so unannounced, I couldn't think of another way to do this that's any less weird."

"Nah, you're good." Harry glances over Zayn's shoulder at Liam, who is eyeing at the back of Zayn's bald head with an odd expression. Hm. "You alright, Liam?"

"What? Oh, yeah. I'm great. Just, um, thirsty. I'm just going to the kitchen now to get some water. Because I'm thirsty." Liam gets up in the most awkward way Harry has ever seen a person do--straight as a pole, his arms flush against his sides with his neck unmoving, and his face a bright red--and disappears into the kitchen. Harry is concerned.

"Wow. I swear, he's normally not like that at all," he says to Zayn, but Zayn just faces the general direction of where Liam headed off to, his stare so warm with affection Harry swears the emotion is dripping out his eyeballs. It's incredibly intimate, and it makes Harry wonder what happened while he was working to make Zayn look at Liam like that.

"It's fine," Zayn assures him, still facing the kitchen. "We've just been passing the time while waiting for you to come home. Nice lad, he is. Great to talk to." Zayn turns to him, and Harry suddenly almost feels unworthy to have the attention of a man like Zayn. Because he's only said six things to the guy and he already knows Zayn is good-looking, successful enough to run a well-off bookstore (if the designer sunglasses he has hanging off his well-tailored polo's breast pocket is anything to go by), and has the ability to turn his roommate into an awkward pile of mush.  _I feel like I should ask for his autograph_ , Harry thinks.

When he glances at his watch ( _that could pay our rent for years_ , Harry muses internally when he notices the gold diamond-studded Rolex on his wrist) Zayn says, "Wow, I've been here for four hours? Didn't seem like it."

"Sorry for making you wait so long," Harry apologizes, because he's a gentleman and would really like to keep his job if he could help it. After a moment of hesitation, he drops onto the couch, Zayn following him to sit beside him on the flat cushions. "You want something to eat? Like, I think we have some leftover bacon from this morning."

Zayn declines by shaking his head politely. "I don't eat pork, thank you. Muslim. And it's cool, I just want to have a chat."

"Yeah? Okay," Harry says, trying very hard to act nonchalant but in a respective way. By the way Zayn watches him squirm, a small but not mean-spirited smirk on his face, he's pretty sure he's failing. "What did you want to talk about?"

There's a short pause when Zayn flickers his gaze to his hands resting on his lap, as if he forgot what he was to say. As the moment lengthens until it's long enough to be considered uncomfortable, Harry starts to ask again, thinking that he may have not heard him. But he's cut off by Zayn lifting his head again and asking, "Um, so I'm sorry if this seems too blunt, but do you know a man named Louis Tomlinson?"

The question makes Harry freeze, his shoulders hunching upwards in an unconscious attempt to hide. Because although the surname is unfamiliar to him, the name  _Louis_  reminds Harry of long nights staring up at his ceiling, either alone or with a person he'd met at the club curled by his side, thinking of the contact on his phone he'd never had the courage to call. It's been nearly a week since he's spent his time in bed like that, and he had just started to think that he was making progress. His reaction to his name alone, although unintentional, proves otherwise.

"Um." Harry licks his chapped lips, hoping that it would help the words racing through his brain come out his mouth faster. "I. I don't know anyone by that name, like, personally."

It'd probably be a good idea if he were to stop there, but Harry just never knows when to shut up during situations that call for a higher level of thinking. "No one I know is named Louis but, uh, there was this guy I briefly met a couple of months ago when I was bartending so, yeah. There's that."

"Really?" Zayn's face brightens up at that, which left Harry a bit startled because he didn't think that was the answer he had been hoping for. "What was he like?"

And if Zayn had come to him four months earlier, had asked him the same question,  _what was he like?_ , Harry would have been able to tell him in detail just how enamoured he was by the man at the other side of the counter. He would have been able to tell him Zayn how fragile Louis' drooping shoulders looked in the gray sweater he was wearing, how delicately his thin fingers gripped the vodka glass, how his nose scrunched up when Harry threw a condom at his face. How his slurred voice was able to pull Harry in the moment he opened his mouth, and how his eyes showed Harry a story he wished, at that very moment, he could know every chapter of, and maybe have a part in. How Louis had left Harry, a poor bartender who had just wanted to go home, with an empty bar and a pounding heart.

But it's been over a hundred days since that night. And now Harry can't even remember what the color of Louis' eyes had been.

"He. He was small, I guess? Like, in stature. Had short brown hair too. And." Harry swallows and picks at the sleeve of the jacket he still has on. "This was just my observation, but. He was...sad. Yeah. He seemed like he wasn't really there."  _But the part that was took all the breathe out of my body, sucked it all out until I was nothing but a deflated balloon slowly cascading to the unswept floor_. "He didn't seem happy with himself. And. I just said some stuff to him that I thought were encouraging? I wanted to cheer him up. I don't know if I did, and he just left. And I haven't seen him since."

"He just left?" Zayn quirks an eyebrow at him. "Just like that?"

Harry twiddles his thumbs in an attempt to stop moving around too much under Zayn's piercing stare. "He actually, um, gave me his phone number? But I didn't call him or anything."  _Is this considered TMI_? Harry ponders. Why is his boss even interested in Harry's failed relationships with strangers? Maybe Zayn thinks he's an idiot and wants to know more details to laugh about with his fellow rich bookstore-owning colleagues. Though Harry hopes that's not the case, because he's getting the feeling that he'll be seeing a lot more of Zayn around his apartment in the future, if the weird but strangely endearing interaction between him and Liam is anything to go by.

"What?" Zayn says, affronted by Harry's confession. "He gave you his phone number and you  _didn't call him back_?"

"Yeah?" Harry answers hesitantly. "And, not to be weird or anything, but you totally sounded like Liam when you said that. Take that information as you will."

The next thing he says makes Harry the most confused he's been since he unexpectedly found his boss sitting on his couch. Zayn leans back and tilts his head so he's looking at the cracked ceiling with a look of pure realization on his face. " _Bismillah_ , both of you are complete idiots."

"Excuse me?" Harry asks with an uncertain tilt of his head. Because despite Zayn being right--Harry  _is_  an idiot, he's been aware of that for quite some time now--he isn't sure who the other supposed idiot he's referring to is.

After rubbing his face with his hands in exasperation, Zayn lifts his head up to look at Harry and says, "He gave you his number. I don't know if it's different in white people culture, but in  _my_  culture, we generally take that as a sign that the person who gives you their number wants you to call them back."

"Well, yeah," Harry agrees, "but... I don't know. I just didn't."

"Yeah, I know," Zayn says dryly. "He's pretty upset about that. You know he wrote a book about you, right?"

"I-- _what_?" He breaks his visage of nonchalance and shoots up out of the couch, his mouth shaped into a horrified grimace. "Who?  _Louis_? You know him?"

Zayn rolls his eyes at Harry. "Unfortunately, yes. He's horrible. But he's also my best friend, so I kind of have an obligation as his best friend to find out what's been making him even more miserable than usual this past four months."

"Miserable?" Harry asks in a small voice.  _Miserable_. Harry didn't want Louis to be miserable. He had wanted to make Louis feel better, not  _miserable_. "I didn't-- I didn't mean to do that."

"Of course you didn't," Zayn says, his tone softening when he sees Harry's guilty face. He pats the uneven seat next to him and says, "Come sit down, babe." When he does, Zayn starts by saying, "He's an idiot that doesn't take any initiative in his life, even if he knows that it would make him happy. When I said, 'Just look him up! There can't be a lot of bartenders named Harry here,' he just shook his head and said he'd wait for you to call. And when he realized you weren't going to, well." Zayn shrugs. "He said he's stopped waiting, but I don't believe him. So when I found out a kid named Harry who's also a bartender was hired at my store, I just decided to see if you were the one. And you are, I guess."

Harry nods slowly, still trying to comprehend that Zayn knows Louis,  _his_  Louis, and is telling him that-- "He--he waited for me? How come he just didn't come back to the bar?"

"I don't know how his brain works," Zayn confesses, leaning against Harry's shoulder. Harry lets him, because Zayn is warm and he needs that, despite the layers he has on. "Maybe he felt that he shouldn't, that you not calling him was a sort of rejection. I don't know." He shakes his head and exhales a breath that gently fans against Harry's jawline. "But what I  _do_  know, Harry, is that when I saw him the day after you guys met, he was glowing. I've never seen him like that before, like he was a different person than the one I saw the day before. But the glow is gone now, and I know that you don't even know the guy, and that your meeting probably isn't as important to you as it is to him, but can I just ask you a favor?"

"Of course." Harry's throat is as dry as the gluten-free granola he ate this morning, making his words sound more like a croak than a sentence. He flushes in embarrassment, but Zayn just gives him a reassuring smile.

"Just. Can you just call him? To meet up or something. Just once, for me. After that, you don't have to see or think about Louis ever again. Please."

At this Harry winces and says, "I don't even know why I didn't call him."

"I understand that," Zayn says, "but can you? For me. And for Louis, too. I just think he needs some closure."

"I'm--yeah," Harry finally acquiesces, reluctantly meeting Zayn's gaze. His eyes are a warm brown, and they help calm Harry's shaky breathing into a more healthy inhale. "It's not like I didn't want to call him. He--that night. When we met. It  _was_. Important, I mean, to me. I don't want to forget about him, not at all." Harry feels his neck heating up by his confession, but he goes on to say, "I just, I kept on delaying to call him? And when I realized I hadn't, it was already over a month. That's too long to contact someone you had one conversation with while he was drunk, right? And I--uh. You know." He scratches his head in frustration, cursing at how horrible he is in voicing out his thoughts. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Zayn insists, getting up after he gives Harry's forearm a light squeeze. "Thank you, Harry. Really, you don't know how much this will help." With a soft look, he says, "I'll just let you at it, then," and makes his way to the kitchen.

"Wait, now?" Harry calls back to him, but is left alone with no answer. Sighing, he slumps into the couch's lumpy but comforting padding.  _Am I really going to do this?_  The time finally hits him, reminding Harry how exhausted he really is. Zayn expects him to call a stranger at three in the morning. And he was going to do it.

When he gets out his phone from his jacket pocket, his eyes blink blearily at the light emitting from its bright screen. He quickly gets to Louis' number, his fluid movements coming from countless times he scrolled to the name only to hover his finger over the call button, never to touch it. It's embarrassing, but now he's actually going to call him, and this simple act is nothing but terrifying.

Distantly, he picks up Zayn's voice floating mid-conversation from the other room. "The List says you want to finish a book?" he says, and Harry can hear the smile in his voice."I can help you with that. I like reading. I can show you some of my favorites."

"Yeah? I'd like that," he hears Liam murmur with a fondness that would make Harry shiver if it was directed at him.  _I hope they work out, at least_ , he thinks.

 _This too._ And he presses call.

The dialing tone rings in his ears and goes on for what seems like forever. Harry tries to match his breaths with the mechanic ringing, the oxygen filling his lungs a reminder that this is  _happening_ , that he isn't daydreaming about this anymore. The overall effort is in vain, however, as his heart stops completely when someone picks up.

"Hello?" answers a voice, gruff with sleep, and Harry is hit with  _that's his voice, that's him breathing in the receiver._

"Um." He licks his lips and does his best to smile, even though he knows Louis can't see it. "Hey. This is Harry. The, uh, bartender? The one who threw a condom at you. Yeah, it's me. Sorry for making you wait so long."


	5. mid-morning conversation over iced-coffee and gluten-free muffins

Harry can see him through the coffee shop's front window. He's sitting at the corner furthest from the entrance, somewhat secluded from the rest of the tables. There's a cup in front of him, its condensation dripping beads of water as he stares down at his phone. He's waiting for him, Harry knows, and he would feel guilty for being rooted outside of the shop's front door for the past five minutes if he weren't so terrified.

Their phone conversation from last week rings through Harry's mind, its brevity doing nothing to rid itself from his thoughts.  _Awkward_  would be a good word to describe it, with Louis still half-asleep and Harry frazzled with the lack of it. After the long pauses and the struggle to come up with things to say, they were able to pick a date to meet; Louis had been out of the country, so they decided that the day after he landed into the city would be a good time.

"There's a coffee shop down the street from the bar I work at. We can meet up there," Harry had suggested. He held his phone, an out-of-date Blackberry with a crack running down the left side of the screen, with a white-knuckled grip. "Wait, shit, do you even know where the bar is? Sorry, I just assumed--"

"It's fine, Harry," Louis assured him through the receiver. His voice was more alert at that point, the shock of Harry calling him beginning to wake his senses. "I know where it is. I'll be there."

And just like he promised, only the shop's thin walls separates them, and here's Harry, unable to walk through the door to the person that he'd wanted to meet since that night four months ago.

 _Stop being a coward,_ he thinks, and finally forces himself to push the door open. It gives a pleasant chime as he walks in.

Louis immediately looks up at the entrance, his mouth parting in surprise when he sees him. Despite the distance between them, Harry can make out the exact shade of his eyes.

 _Blue_ , Harry thinks dimly, his feet moving underneath him,  _how did I forget his eyes are blue?_

Before long, he finds himself standing in front of the table. He styled his hair differently than when Harry last saw him; while it was gelled up into a sharp quiff before, it's down now, soft and fluffy enough to make Harry want to run his hands through it. He stares down at Louis as his mind panics with  _what should I do? Do I shake his hand? Do I re-introduce myself? Do I kiss him?_

"Uh," he says instead, unable to look away from Louis' gaze. He looks just as surprised as Harry is, which is a comfort. But not enough to stop him from making a fool out of himself by saying, "I'll--I'm going to get something to eat."

Louis blinks up at him, his face a look a wonder. "Oh. Okay." His voice, so different than what it sounded like on the phone, tugs at something in Harry's chest.

Harry spins on his heel and heads to the cashier. In his haste he only has a couple of crumpled bills on him, having forgotten his wallet in the living room. So he buys a muffin, the cheapest thing in the menu, and feels Louis' eyes on him throughout the transaction, his stare searing into his skin as though it was leaving a mark.

The cashier notices Harry's discomfort, his nervousness, and quirks an eyebrow at him after giving Louis a brief glance. "The guy's been waiting here for nearly an hour," she tells him as she hands him his change and muffin, "and seemed absolutely scared out of his mind the whole time. Looked like he was about to bail, but something was holding him back. Don't be like that, kid; you seem like you're about to shit your pants, but trust me, that guy is just as nervous as you are." She hands him his change and says, "If it makes you feel any better, right now, he's staring at the back of your head as if you're the reason the sun rises after nighttime."

"Thanks," he says, holding his muffin and dropping his change in the tip jar next to the cash register. He probably shouldn't do that, considering his current financial situation, but the cashier's remarks helps quell the crashing of waves he feels in his stomach. It gives him more courage to turn and walk back to the corner of the shop.

Harry takes the seat across from Louis without saying a word, placing the muffin in front of him. He can't think of anything to say other than  _I'm sorry_  and  _would you believe me if I say I haven't stopped thinking about you?_ But that wouldn't be the right thing to say when you first properly meet someone, so he doesn't say them out loud.

"I," Louis starts before coughing in his hand. Harry offers him the napkin that came with his muffin, but Louis waves it off with a small, embarrassed grin. "Sorry, I just got over a small cold. I was just gonna say that...this coffee shop. It's nice. Homey."

Harry nods in agreement and says, "Yeah, I actually found out about it a couple of months ago while searching on Yelp for some cheap places that has a gluten-free menu."

"Gluten-free?"

"Yeah," Harry affirms, "I'm trying to cut out gluten from my diet. It's bad for you, I think."

"Ah." Louis leans against the table and reaches for his cup, taking a sip of his iced coffee while observing Harry with an unreadable look. When Louis doesn't offer up another conversation starter, Harry takes a bite out of his gluten-free muffin and tries to think of something interesting to say. He's drawing a blank. They sit there in uncomfortable silence for what seems like hours, at least to him.

"I--fuck, I'm sorry," Harry says out of the blue, his frustration with himself finally tipping over. "I'm really awkward and weird, and this is definitely not what you thought I'd be like, did you? Here you are, meeting with some guy that never called you back, thinking that he'd be cool or whatever. And I just waltz up to you talking about gluten. I'm sorry. You know what, I'll just. I'll just leave, I'm so sorry for wasting your time--"

"Sit down, Harry," Louis cuts him off, making Harry freeze halfway off his seat. He gives him a helpless look, but Louis says, "Sit down, please. You're not weird."

Harry hesitantly sits back on his seat, opting to pick at his muffin instead of making new eye contact with the man across from him. He spent the last week thinking about how he'd handle this day: would he try to smooth talk Louis? Make him laugh? Make a good impression?  _Apparently none the above_ , he thinks, the silence hanging above them making his ears turn a light pink from his embarrassment. This is horrible. He shouldn't have called. Fuck Zayn, to be honest.

"So Zayn called me the day after you," Louis pipes up. Harry tears his eyes away from his muffin and finally looks at Louis, who has both of his hands cupped against his iced coffee. "He told me what he had done. How he basically begged you to, uh, do what you did. Call me back."

"Oh," Harry says. He opens his mouth to say more, but is cut off again.

"What I want to know is." Louis stops to rub at his eye, and Harry notices that they're not as bloodshot as they were four months ago, how the bags under his eyes have faded until they're nearly unnoticeable to someone not look for them. But the slump of his shoulders is still there, as well as the soft downturn of his mouth, and Harry can see that while some things have changed, some haven't. "What I want to know is...why didn't you call me?"

"What?" Harry furrows his brow. "But I did? We wouldn't be here if I didn't."

Louis shakes his head. "You called me more than four months after we met, and only because my best friend basically tracked you down and forced you. You had all that time to call, but you didn't. I know this sounds pathetic, that I expected a bartender who was on the job to call back some drunk, but. I just thought. Why didn't you call me?"

Louis' tone makes Harry's throat close up. He sounds confused, like a child asking his mother why his father isn't at home anymore. It makes his heart hurt. "It's not like, it's not like I was put off by you." He swallows. "Zayn mentioned how you thought our meeting didn't mean anything to me. And I can see why you'd think that, since it  _was_  pretty short. But it did, it really did."  _It meant everything._  "I. I  _really_  like you, Louis. As much as one can after a single conversation."

His face when Harry says that adopts a hopeful look, but it's still marred with trepidation. "If you liked me, then why didn't you call?"

Harry sighs. "I don't know, " he admits, like all the times he's done before. To Liam and to Zayn, and finally to Louis himself. "I just didn't."

"You just didn't," Louis repeats, incredulous. He leans back on his chair. "You just didn't. I waited for you, you know."

"Really."

"Yeah." Louis scoffs, and just like that, it's like a dam was opened, causing everything in his head to spill onto the table, onto Harry's muffin and Louis' iced coffee. "I waited, um. I waited for an unknown number to flash on my phone screen. And when I'd pick up, it would be your voice. And you would say hi, and I would say hi, and we would make plans to meet up. And we would meet up, maybe at a coffee shop like this, and we would talk, get to know each other and shit. And you would make me laugh and I would make you smile that smile that makes me want to burst, and we would try each other's drinks and make fun of how we take our coffee, and we would start falling in love, and. You were supposed to  _call_  me."

And they sit there, Louis with his hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose and his hair falling gently on his forehead; Harry silent with shock at his outburst. The coffee shop is starting to fill up more, couples and friends and families laughing and drinking with the mid-morning sunlight shining through the shop's glass windows. The scent of coffee and freshly baked goods wafts pleasantly in the air, and maybe this is the one time in his short, ideal-chasing life Harry shouldn't shut up.

"...Black."

Louis drops his hand into the table. "What?"

Harry shrugs. "I take my coffee black, no milk or sugar. I don't like the extra stuff."

He squints at Harry in confusion before realization dawns upon his' face. "Oh." A small grin twitches at the the corner of his lips. "Really. Haha. That's so weird. I don't know anyone who takes their coffee like that."

"How do you take yours?"

And that's how it starts. They talk about anything that comes to mind: the time Harry was arrested for unknowingly helping a local crime organization's kosher grocery store flourish; how Louis hates but loves the color red; Harry's idealistic aspirations in life after graduating university and the grim reality that awaited him; Louis and his fear of failing, whether it be in an insignificant thing such as losing in a game of chess or just the simple act of waking up in the morning. The pull Harry felt when they first met is back tenfold, making him breathless with the thought of  _it shouldn't be this easy._  But it is, and this, too, terrifies him.

"What do you do for a living, anyway?" Harry asks, folding the foil of his muffin in half. It's been nearly three hours, but it didn't feel that long to Harry, not at all. "It's funny; my job is the reason we met in the first place, but I don't even know yours."

Louis laughs as he wipes crumbs off his chin with a napkin. About a half hour ago he had bought a muffin as well, to see what "things with gluten doesn't taste like." He liked it. He told him this, and it made Harry smile. "Oh, I'm a writer."

Something in Harry clicks.  _"You know he wrote a book about you, right?"_  he remembers Zayn saying. He'd written that comment off that night, having no context to make any sense of it, but now he realizes what Zayn had meant. "Oh. That's what he meant."

"He mentioned it?" Louis laughs again, but there's a nervous edge to it this time.

"Yeah." Hesitantly, he adds, "He, uh, said you wrote a book about me?"

Immediately Louis' face flushes and his eyes widen, horrified. "That little  _shit_ ," he hisses to himself from between his teeth. "I'm gonna-- just forget about it, Harry. Zayn just likes pissing me off."

"I mean, I'm flattered," Harry clarifies, his eyes soft. "I hope it was nice. Is your book something I've heard of?"

Louis rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks still a light pink. "I'm not  _that_  popular. I get just enough to get by. I use a pseudonym? I write poetry, mostly. And don't worry, I didn't, like, outright call you out or anything. I just." He coughs. "I just had to get some feelings off my chest." 

"It's fine, artistic integrity and all that." It's obvious Louis doesn't want to approach this topic, so Harry lets it slide. Maybe, later on, Louis will let him read his work.

"Yeah." Louis clears his throat. "My job is how I met Zayn, actually."

"How?"

"He actually contacted me a couple of years back, said that one of my poems helped inspire him for a role. We met up after that and, well. I've been stuck with him since."

"Role?" Harry says.

"Yeah," Louis says. "You didn't know?"

"Know what?"

Louis snorts. "Figures he wouldn't tell you. Zayn's not just a bookstore owner. That's just his side project. He's actually an actor? A pretty big one, too. Like, I'm pretty sure he won an Oscar last awards season."

"Oh." Surprisingly, Harry isn't surprised at all. He got the "richer and more talented than you" vibe from Zayn; he just didn't know how right he was. "That explains all the expensive clothes."

Louis gives him an understanding look that says  _yeah, I feel you._  "You don't seem all that shocked."

"Meh. Zayn just seems like the kind of guy who's destined to be famous, so him being an actor isn't that out of the box for me. Honestly, I'm just waiting for Niall, my boss at the bar, to confess that he's secretly a world-renowned pop star."

Louis laughs at that. "Tell me about it when he does. Hey, have you heard from Zayn recently? 'Cause I haven't seen him since last week."

"It's probably because he's been at mine and Liam's place 24/7," Harry says, grinning fondly. "It's as if he lives with us now. It's crazy how easily he just. Fits in. It drives Liam insane, and I'm not sure if it's in a good way or a bad one. But I'm pretty sure Zayn never leaves him alone, he's so clingy. I'm waiting for them to get it together and just ask each other out. It's cute. They're cute."

Harry isn't lying. Zayn's unexpected entrance into his and Liam's life was surprising but not unwanted; every morning Harry wakes up to find Zayn either lounging on their couch reading or talking to Liam in their kitchen. Harry isn't sure how he gets in, but he doesn't question it. And the way Liam's been (nervous yet calm, confused yet charmed) makes the sudden roommate worth it. Zayn's presence helps Liam stop frantically stressing over his job-hunting (still unsuccessful, unfortunately), and for that, Harry is grateful.

"Oh," Louis says.

"And, um." Harry stops, then says hesitantly, "I hope, that. I hope we can be like that, too. That we. Yeah. Like, if you want to? Shit, am I being too forward?"

The table rattles as Louis bumps his knees underneath it as he crosses his legs. "I--no. You're not sick of me yet?"

Harry laughs in disbelief. "Sick of you? As if I could. I already told you, Louis, I like you a lot, even more now that we've gotten to know each other better. And if," Harry bows his head down shyly, "you want to, you know, just, with me. I want to."

Louis doesn't say anything for a moment, long enough for Harry to start backtracking. "I know we only met and all, so you don't need to promise anything. I'm just laying my cards on the table and saying that I'm interested. That doesn't mean you're obligated by any means--"

"You remember the night we met?" Louis interrupts (he does that a lot, Harry notices, but for some reason, he's not bothered by it at all). "Of course you do. But do you remember what you said about me?"

"I remember." Harry pauses. "I remember seeing you and wondering why you looked so sad. And how I wanted to, I don't know, make you happier, even just a little bit."

Louis nods. "Exactly." He shifts in his chair into a more comfortable position. "That night was a low point for me. I wasn't happy with myself. I had just moved into a new flat by myself in a city where I knew and liked only one person, my editor was pressuring me into finishing a book I had no inspiration to write, and. I just. I know it seems so trivial saying it out loud now, but I'm usually a pretty cheerful guy, and I just wasn't used to feeling so  _useless_. Nothing felt real to me, you know?

"And then you." Louis blinks down at the remnants of his muffin and his empty drink as he gathers his thoughts. "You were like this fresh breath of air after spending so long in a musty attic, and you didn't even  _do_  anything. You just listened to me at a time when no one ever did. You made me realize that someone, even a stranger serving me alcohol in the middle of the night, could  _care_. I really needed that. So, thanks."

"No problem," Harry says, his throat dry.

Louis looks at him then, contemplative as he chews the inside of his cheek. "So what I'm basically saying is.  _This_. Whatever this is, I want to try it. I'd really like to, if you'll have me."

Now, Harry's whole body is flooded with a sweet  _something_ , and he feels Louis' stare as it seeps through his skin, his sinew, his bones, all the way down into somewhere around the center of Harry's stomach. He gives Louis a bashful smile and finally gives into the urge of reaching across the table for Louis' hand. It's small and warm under his palm, and he can feel him shift nervously, but Louis doesn't pull away.

"If it makes you feel better," Harry murmurs in a hushed tone, as if he is telling Louis a secret, "I vandalized a bathroom stall because of you."

Louis' lips quirk up, and his eyes shine with a brightness Harry would preferably like to see forever, if Louis would allow him to. "You did?"

"Yeah."

"Hm. Yeah, that does make me feel better."

"Well, to be fair, I only used a sharpie and took about six inches of the stall's surface area. Hey, don't look at me at that, I'm no criminal--"

"You're just digging yourself even deeper, Styles." He's laughing as he says this, his head tilting back so he's looking at the ceiling.

Harry wonders why it took him so long to make this happen. He should have called him months ago. And maybe he'll never know why he didn't, but sitting here now, gravitating towards each other with their hands intertwined, he could never say he regrets it.

"Sorry for taking forever to do this," Harry apologizes during a brief lull in Louis' laughter. "Liam was tired of it, too. He even wrote about it. He'll be glad to know I can cross this out of The List."

"The List?"

"Oh, it's basically just a bucket list for me and him. Like, he wrote about reading more and finding someone who won't cheat on him. Finding Zayn was killing two birds with one stone in that part. Mine's was about taking gluten out of my diet and cutting my hair."

"Which you didn't do," Louis reprimands him teasingly, pointedly looking at Harry's hair. It's nearly reaching his shoulders now.

If he moves his head a little more he could kiss him, Harry realizes, but he decides to save that for later (because there  _is_  a later now, and that fact alone makes Harry spark with electricity). Instead, he squeezes Louis' hand and leans closer, so close their noses brush against each other. "Yeah, well, I had more important things in my mind."


	6. early morning silence

Rays of morning light peek through his window shutters. They seep into Harry's bedroom and glow against his bed sheets and face, causing him to look up and blink blearily at the clock on his bedside table. He isn't due to wake up for another two hours for his shift at the bookstore, but he's sure he won't be able to go back to sleep. So he flops his head back onto his pillow and sighs. The sun still shines through the window and onto his bed, but it doesn't warm his skin nearly as much as the familiar body next to his.

Louis sighs in his sleep and clings to Harry's waist under the covers, pulling him closer. It's the middle of August and their air conditioner broke again, so the apartment is stuffy and hot. Harry doesn't move away though, opting to put up with the heat so Louis doesn't wake up. He came back from a book signing in New York the night before, barely able to stand on his feet from exhaustion, so Harry figures he could use the extra hours of sleep.

Harry's hand run smoothly through Louis' hair, his locks smelling like the brand of shampoo Liam had left behind before moving in with Zayn the year before. Louis had liked it and began using it instead of his usual shampoo. It's citrusy and smells especially good after Harry and Louis get out the shower, so Harry doesn't complain.

The planes of Harry's chest rise up and down as he breathes through his nose. He's tired, but not as much as he usually was when he still worked the night shift at Niall's bar. His pay from the bookstore and the money Louis gets from his writing (which is insanely popular, Harry finds out a couple of months after they start dating. Louis is just too modest to admit that his poetry and short stories is one of the most acclaimed in the genre, and Harry loves him for that) is enough for Harry to let go one of his jobs, and Niall was understanding and happy to see him go. "Tell your guy to write a poem about me and the bar," Niall'd said on his last day on the job, "it'll be good publicity for us."

Instead, Harry made Louis mention how "charming" the owner of this "atmospheric and lovely" bar he found was to his three million followers on Twitter. Business boomed. In return, Niall named a drink after them, the "Larry Stylinson." Harry and Louis got drunk off of them and spent the rest of that day in bed.

Time couldn't move any quicker. Harry closes his eyes and opens them to find that he has to get up in ten minutes. He rubs his eyes and shifts so his bare feet touch the floor. He hears Louis grumble from the absence of his body heat.

"I gotta get going," he says, smoothing his thumb over the crease of Louis' eyebrow.

Louis kisses the palm of his hand. "I'll be here."

And he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *war flashbacks*


End file.
